


we do not surrender

by Dialux



Series: fighting furies; or the starks' revenge [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen, Missing Scene, Tywin Lannister's A+ Parenting, also really do check out how many girls there are in the westerlands that are unmarried, and about twenty boys, bamf Sansa, it's all very strange, there's about- five
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-28 17:26:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13276341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dialux/pseuds/Dialux
Summary: “I forget their names, quite honestly. What was it that Cersei called them? The wolf-bitch and the fainting flower?” He snorted. “The two of them apparently had advance warning, closed the castle gates, and led a mounted army of- well, the letter’s not clear but theyarecalling it the Battle of the Valkyries, so I’m assuming there are some Valkyries involved.”“The girls?” Tywin asked, aghast. “Not even the second son- he got captured by twogirls?”





	we do not surrender

**Author's Note:**

> A missing scene from my fic, "if you try to break me, you will bleed," where Tywin finds out that Jaime was captured by Sansa and Arya; written for a prompt on tumblr.
> 
> This won't make sense if you haven't read the larger fic, so- yeah. Read that before you read this.

Tywin was in the Red Keep when the news came.

In the Tower of the Hand, with paperwork coming near to his chin and no sign of stopping.

War had many effects: between all the blood and death and terror, there was also paperwork for all of it. Taxes had to be rehauled, along with census estimates. Grain had to be redistributed from prosperous areas to the war-ravaged lands. Little wonder that Jon Arryn had died of it in the end; this amount of work was for younger men, not someone who could have been Tywin’s father.

Tywin was exhausted of it himself, and he’d only been the Hand for all of a moon’s turn.

_It matters not._ He sighed and dragged a parchment towards him, emblazoned with the flowery insignia of the Reach. _Another week, and the Northerners will fall. Another month, and the War of Four Kings shall have one king left. Another year, and the world shall forget that there was never a Lannister on the throne._

They just had to maintain their power for that long.

Between then and now, however, there was a mountain of paperwork to finish, starting with Lord Tyrell’s request for higher tariffs on the grain sent to Dorne.

He’d just reached for parchment to pen a letter to Mace Tyrell- a scathing one, deserving of a lord who hadn’t the pride to avoid asking for charity- when a page burst into the room.

“M’lord,” he said, tremulously. “M’lord, your- Lord Tyrion sent for you.” He bowed his head, dark strands of hair falling over his eyes. “He said it was urgent.”

_Urgent?_ Tywin felt irritation, and then a faint sort of relief when he glanced over at the pile behind him. Tyrion knew better than to ask for Tywin’s attention if it was unnecessary; and even then, had it not been truly sensitive, he’d have come to Tywin himself.

If it weren’t sensitive, Tywin would throttle his son himself. The frustration he was feeling surely deserved some sort of an outlet.

...

He entered his private chambers slowly.

It was looking more and more likely that he’d have two children left by the end of the day. Tyrion had never lacked for courage, Tywin would give him that; but he’d never had the foolishness to order Tywin to meet him in his own private chambers either. There was little that could excuse this utter travesty of-

“Father,” said Tyrion, bowing from the middle of Tywin’s fucking _bedchamber._ He flicked his hand, dismissing the page, and nodded to the door. “You’ll want to close that.”

“Will I?”

“If _this_ is true-” he waved a letter, mismatched eyes glaring up at him, “-you’re not going to want everyone to know.”

“There are very few things I want everyone to know,” Tywin replied, as even as he could make the words.

Tyrion twisted his lips. “It certainly sheds light on the situation,” he said. “The Starks were aiming to come south as quickly as possible and then they stopped, didn’t they? They moved their forces up to the Riverlands, is what half our scouts are saying. Which didn’t make sense, not until- _this.”_

Again with the letter-waving.

_Did Jaime-_ Tywin realized, abruptly, what the letter must contain. _He must have succeeded._

Though why Tyrion still looked so grim…

Tywin lifted one eyebrow. “The war is won, then. Your nephew shall sit the Iron Throne, and there shall be none to stand against him.”

The only question now was whether to kill Robb Stark, or to graciously forgive him. _Or,_ Tywin thought, mulling it over, _graciously forgive him and_ then _kill him- preferably quietly, with poison._

Rumor could be as great a tool as a sword- greater, in the right hands, and Tywin was a master. The Stark girls would come south with Jaime and the half-dozen Westerland heirs with him; Robb Stark would die within a moon’s turn of the North’s surrender; Joffrey would take the throne, and the Lannisters would reach ever-higher heights. The only songs sung of them would be of their greatness.

“The war,” said Tyrion contemplatively, stopping Tywin’s thoughts cold with the smugness in them, the smugness he’d never been able to hide when he knew something others didn’t. “I never thought you’d be this foolish, but- tell me, did you truly send Jaime off with the Boltons?”

Tywin stared at him, and then turned around and shut the door. No one should have known that. The only letter Jaime should have sent once his triumph was finished was a single line. “Who told you that?” he demanded.

“This letter did.” Tyrion waved the damn thing again. “This letter, addressed from Riverrun.”

_Riverrun._ Jaime would have sent a raven as soon as he’d done what he needed to do, which should have meant a raven from Last Hearth. Not Riverrun, the base of almost the entirety of the Starks’ rebellion.

“What does it say?” he asked hoarsely.

There were a hundred scenarios running in his mind. If Roose Bolton betrayed his son, Tywin would raze the Dreadfort to the ground if he has to light the match himself. If Ramsay Snow messed up what ought to have been the simplest covert operation in the history of Westeros, then Tywin would flay the stupid man until he was more blood than skin. If-

“Jaime was captured,” Tyrion said.

“By _who?”_

“The Starks.” He smiled, nastily amused. “I forget their names, quite honestly. What was it that Cersei called them? The wolf-bitch and the fainting flower?” He snorted. “The two of them apparently had advance warning, closed the castle gates, and led a mounted army of- well, the letter’s not clear but they _are_ calling it the Battle of the Valkyries, so I’m assuming there are some Valkyries involved.”

“The girls?” Tywin asked, aghast. “Not even the second son- he got captured by two _girls?”_

He gripped the table, as much for support as for the sharp pain of splinters.

Tyrion’s face tightened, and he tossed the letter to Tywin. “How many men did you send with him?”

“A hundred,” he answered absently, skimming through it. Tywin could feel the blood roaring in his ears when he saw the statistics.

“Only thirty survived,” said Tyrion.

Tywin didn’t have names, but there were at least seven heirs who’d gone with Jaime. It had been Tywin who’d approached them with the plan, with war-time brides and stolen ladies; it had been Tywin who’d promised their fathers of the safety of the mission; it had been Tywin who’d sworn that there would be nobleborn girls that could become proper wives for their sons.

The lords had jumped for it, yes. There was a lack of women in the Westerlands, by a complete stroke of fate; if the nobility weren’t careful, they’d have to look at hedge knights and crofter’s daughters for any children. This had seemed like the answer to their prayers.

And now he wasn’t entirely certain the seven fools had _survived,_ let alone succeeded.

“Are there any demands?” he asked, before skipping to the end of the letter and reading it for himself.

It was horrifying.

_My demands are simple,_ wrote Robb Stark, as if anything between two kings could be simple. _I only wish for it to be known that Joffrey Lannister-_ here, Tywin hissed in rage; how _dare_ the idiot boy call his grandson by a name that he did not have a right to!- _is undeserving of his crown, and for peace through the realm. Fly white banners from the Red Keep’s walls, and there shall be no more battle._

“I will strip the skin from Robb Stark’s skull,” Tywin said coldly, before reaching out and throwing the letter into the fire behind Tyrion.

He ran his tongue along his lips and imagined his son, who was thrown behind enemy lines, safely ensconced as far from Tywin as was geographically possible in the North. There had been only one time before this in which Tywin had all but tasted the blood in the air- when he’d imagined himself a lion in all but skin- when House Reyne had risen up and he’d read of Ellyn’s defiance. And now, now he could taste the copper and the sting, and he knew it was but a matter of time before the end.

_Whose end?_ He wondered, watching flame consume the black ink and parchment, until all that remained was the scarlet wax-seal, of a direwolf mocking him with its longevity. _It matters not,_ he decided then, and straightened firmly. _I shall battle them, and if I am to die I shall die- but I shall take as many as I can with me._

“We’ve lost this war,” Tyrion said flatly. “It would be best to heed his demands.”

“We’ve lost this war,” Tywin agreed, before smiling, sharp and smooth as a lion’s mane. “But we have our pride. If the Starks wish to capture the Lannisters, they shall have to pay for every step in blood. We are lions. And when challenged- we do not surrender.”

Tyrion- he paled, at what he saw in Tywin’s face. Yes, he’d know; Tyrion had always been interested in the lion cages beneath Casterly Rock. He’d read the books in the library as well. He’d know what Tywin meant, who Tywin was quoting.

Loreon Lannister had been a lion in all but form. There was little known of him; he’d lived so long ago, and there were so many contradictory stories- but one thing they all agreed upon was that of his words, shouted upon every battlefield that he’d ever swung a sworn on.

_A lion does not surrender,_ he’d said. _A lion wins, or dies._

Tywin was many things, but he was a Lannister first, and being a Lannister meant being a lion.

He had no intention of surrendering.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on my [tumblr!](dialux.tumblr.com)


End file.
